


All Hell and It's Fire

by ingersol, yolkipalki



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Black Magick, Broken Bones, Broken Promises, Cursed Jaskier | Dandelion, Curses, F/M, Gritty, Guilt, Higher Vampire Jaskier | Dandelion, How Do I Tag, Hurt, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Lesser Evils, M/M, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Scars, Suicidal Thoughts, Vampires, Whump, no beta no plan no problem?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:29:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27173146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ingersol/pseuds/ingersol, https://archiveofourown.org/users/yolkipalki/pseuds/yolkipalki
Summary: Geralt claims that Jaskier is better off without him but he couldn't be more wrong. Can he reconcile the guilt and make up for his mistakes? Can he fix it, or is it already too late?I didn’t outline, I didn’t beta. The creatures might not conform 100% to the lore, I mixed a lot of it with the Slavic folklore I was raised on. So the same soup, different spices. I hope you like it and would LOVE to hear thoughts. It’s going to get dark and gritty, it’s already very much headed that way. Please do not read if any of the tags listed are a content trigger for you. My half-cock writing is most definitely not worth your mental health.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 27
Kudos: 100





	1. The House At The Top of The Rock

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sad to say that I will be going away for a little while, I don't know when I'll be back. But my dearest friend lemon, aka honeylemontrashcat, has agreed to take over for me. I have given her all that I have for it and I turn this over into her capable hands. I know she will do it justice. 
> 
> Cheers all. 
> 
> All of my love, 
> 
> ingers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> summary courtesy of the lovely lemon: 
> 
> It's Suffering O'Clock. Do you know where your bard is?
> 
> Well, he's closer than you think.

**All Hell and It's Fire**

**Chapter One: The House at the Top of the Rock**

by Ingersøl & Lemon

* * *

* * *

CW: broken bones, suicidal ideation

* * *

The rain pounded hard against the earth, pulling what once was dust in a rocky sludge from under the feet of weary travelers and villagers. The relentless assault washed away worn dirt paths and dislodged boulders and posts as it cut rivers through the rocky landscape. The wind howled deep and low and it reverberated in Geralt’s chest as he pressed forward through the storm. He certainly wasn't enjoying himself but overall he didn’t mind, finding a sort of meditative peace in the assault from the skies. Sure it was rather miserable, slogging through the frigid rain for days on end, but it was incredibly grounding and not the worst thing he had been made to do during his long days. It prevented his mind from straying too far from the task at hand, from concerning himself too much with things to come...or that had already passed. He needed to focus on the things that stood in his path presently. A tavern of sorts could be found not far up the hill along the path, or rather where the path had been before the raging storms. 

It had been raining for six bloody days, a hurricane brewing just off the coast. Traveling through such conditions was not new to Geralt, he had trudged through far worse for far longer. 

That was the least of his concerns. Despite his best efforts he once again found himself in the companionship of a human, and a young one at that. He glanced back at Ciri through the sheets of pelting rain. She leaned into Roach, curled tightly in her cloak to shield from the relentless barrage of frigid water.

Geralt worried about her, at the very least she was miserable but more than that she could catch her death in a storm such as this. His healing capabilities didn't expand much beyond witchers, Jaskier had made him painfully aware of that more than once. 

It wouldn’t be long now.

The last village, barely hours behind them had felt like days ago, time passing slowly as they trudged up the way. Something caught his attention at his feet, a stain of color in the bleak landscape of the flooding hills. He stopped in his tracks, Roach faithfully halting her advance beside him.

Geralt lifted his boot cautiously, a glimpse of vibrant color amongst the filth of mud and waste catching his eye. It was a wildflower, crushed into the gravel and dirty water below his heavy foot. Normally he would've paid no mind, surely it was no different than the countless plants he had tread upon in his lifetime. He took a step back, delicately pulling the thing from the sludge in the low light of the dreary storm. 

A single cornflower had grown up along the lonely path to the tavern and he had smashed it into the mud, tearing its delicate petals and ripping the stem from the root. 

Before leaving Posada with the naïve, bright-eyed bard in tow, Geralt had never paid particular attention to any plant, or _anything_ for that matter, that didn't possess a practical purpose. 

Cornflowers weren't special. They weren’t useful, possessed no alchemical properties or nutrients, no veins of magical energy. They were just like any other flower - bright, fragrant, and fragile. Now it seemed as though he couldn't escape them. He would guess he had seen them many times over the years that he had wandered across the Continent. But before his days with the bard, he had never given them more than a cursory glance. Geralt had never known their name, their scent until Jaskier strolled dramatically into his life. It had simply never mattered before, still didn't matter if he was being honest. 

And yet there he was holding the crushed flower in his hand, blinking at it stupidly through the rainfall. 

The occasional farmer or weary traveler would trudge past hoping to seek shelter from the raging storm at the tavern ahead, stopping only to mutter about the brooding stranger blocking the already thin path. He tried to lose himself in the sensation of heavy rain as it pelted down on his worn, woolen cloak. But the thundering rains were no match for the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that twisted into knots like a nest of writhing snakes. 

"Geralt? Is everything alright?" The small voice called from beside him, nearly drowned out in the symphony of the storm. It shattered his thoughts. 

Ciri leaned forward into Roach's saddle, attempting to get a better look at the man's face, her drenched cloak wrapped tightly around her small frame. He sighed before rolling his shoulder and continuing down the path, muddied flower in hand.

* * *

  
  


_"Gods, I love that…" Jaskier made a flourish with his hand as he inhaled deeply, searching for the right words, "earthy, peppered scent of cornflowers."_

_He had plucked a stray flower from the overgrown path and slid it behind his ear, strumming the lute lazily as he walked along. It had been over an hour now and he was still going strong occasionally pulling the flower from behind his ear and smelling it or twirling it in the light of the sun._

_"The very existence of a flower is tragic, isn't it?" Jaskier mused as he lazed along behind Roach, for some reason, walking backward as he went._

_Geralt grunted in response, trying his best to tune out the poetic ramblings._

_"It is born into this world, beautiful and bright. And we are drawn to them, we pick them, ripping them from the fertile soil that they have struggled so hard to claim amidst the rocks and the weeds. We give them to those that we love, place them upon the graves of those we've lost. And within days of being plucked from their roots and their soil...they die. I can’t help but wonder...if we aren’t so different from these fragile, little things."_

_“Sometimes the best thing a flower can do for us is to die.” Geralt growled, and he rode on down the trail, not bothering to look back_.

* * *

No sooner than they arrived at what appeared to be the back of the tavern than a woman with a screaming child upon her hip tossed the backdoor open, startling Roach who faithfully trudged alongside Geralt just meters away from the door. With some effort, she tossed a bucket of rainwater nearly hitting Geralt before she had even noticed them there. Her eyes widened and she opened her mouth to speak but stopped herself, as she locked eyes with the man who stood where the path stood just days before. She set the bucket back inside to catch the leak from the roof. Numbly she put the crying child down inside, ignoring his wailing, and moved to stand out the backdoor of the tavern in the rain. Geralt said nothing, greeting her with an indifferent stare.

“Witcher,” she whispered in absolute disbelief. 

_Fuck._

He was already fairly miserable, and now he was sufficiently uncomfortable. He forgot what a pain in the ass it was to make his own accommodations since traveling together the bard had done all of that for him. He could hear Ciri’s heartbeat begin to flutter like a bird, she reached for him and he lifted his hand ever so slightly as if to both soothe and silence her without alerting the woman.

He took several steps forward, putting distance between Ciri and the woman standing in the rain.

"We are traveling northwards. Is there lodging inside to wait out the storm?" 

When she made no move to leave or to explain herself, he straightened his shoulders. The woman took a step closer, lifting her skirts to keep them dry as her bare feet slid into the mud just outside her door never taking her eyes off of Geralt’s face.

“It’s not been ten years past now since you stood on this very step, Geralt of Rivia and it seems as though destiny has once again brought you to my door.”

_Fuck._

He stifled a growl and spoke as calmly as possible. “I need to get the girl out of the rain, she needs food and a warm place to sleep. Then we can discuss destiny as much as you’d like.” 

The woman’s eyes wandered to the horse behind the man and then to the small child, curled on the back of the animal. Ciri lifted her head to look at the woman and smiled as best she could through chattering teeth. 

“Devils below. Forgive me, sir witcher and his lady. Follow me, quick, before you catch your death out here.”The woman clamored aside the backdoor to the tavern, beckoning them to follow. 

* * *

Geralt sat at the small table in the corner of their room. It was spacious and furnished with polished woods and beds of down. The coin he offered had been refused by the woman, she insisted on giving them the room as a courtesy for his work done in Murkwood many years previous and on the simple condition that later that evening after the drunks had been sent into the rain and the candles blown out, that he would hear her.

That could only be bad news.

Ciri stripped of her wet clothing and slipped into drier clothing, still damp from the soaked saddlebag. She crawled onto the bed nearest where Geralt sat and eyed him suspiciously as she wrapped herself in the colorful, worn quilt that had been folded neatly at the foot of the bed.

After a moment of silence she looked up at him, her lips pursed in mild annoyance. “So are you going to tell me why we stood in the rain for nearly twenty minutes looking at a…” she craned her neck to look closer at the mangled plant that Geralt had set carefully on the wooden table in front of him. “at a _flower_.” She raised her eyebrows, articulating the last words with disbelief.

Geralt shifted uncomfortably, suddenly aware of how uncomfortable he felt. Absentmindedly he kicked off his boots eyes still roaming over the flames in the hearth. "It's... a long story." 

She rubbed her cold hands together and watched his back as he turned and stripped of his armor. His body a tapestry of gnarled and knotted scars. He slipped on a shirt and sat at the table once more. He had hoped that merely stating the story was long would deter Ciri from asking more questions when in actuality it merely piqued her interest.

A knock at the door sounded and the woman stepped inside, followed by a young man who carried platters of food. She bustled about, setting earthenware down on the edge of the table and dropping tea leaves and bark in the mugs. She put the kettle on as the young man laid out fresh bread, fish and pheasant, and some sort of steaming purple root Ciri had never before seen. Before leaving the woman grabbed the handle of the kettle with her apron and poured boiling water over the herbs. She passed a mug to Ciri tenderly and smiled. 

“This’ll warm ya, love. I’ll draw the bath and let you know when it’s ready.” 

And before either of them could say a word she was out the door. Ciri chuckled and blew across the surface of the mug.

“Well, go on then. I want the whole thing. And after keeping me out in that storm, it better be a good one or you're in big trouble, Geralt. I mean it.” She sipped her tea slowly and after a moment, her scowl cracked into the slightest of grins.

* * *

_Geralt had known but a few precious moments of peace these days. He had considered this to be one of them, though peace was probably a rather strong word to use. For instead of filling the air with the ramblings of the bard, the air had filled with the hollow rattle of nekkers screeching as they tore from nests of bone and flesh and bounded through the wood._

_But that “peace”, if you could call it that, was over now. He had collected the heads for the bounty posted at the crossroads near the village of Mourne. Some eleven in total, they would fetch him a pretty penny on the morrow. He dropped them with a sudden thud that caused Jaskier to yelp. He scowled up at Geralt with pursed lips and without a word went back to scribbling in his notebook._

_Geralt made no effort to hide the amusement he had felt at annoying his travel companion. He tossed his sword down in the dirt, sending a splatter of viscera over the campfire and Jaskier. He ignored the griping and mumbled complaints, as he stared into the flames, pulling his gloves off, and reaching for his sack to rummage around for the last of the dried meat and fruit he had._

_Jaskier twirled the flower between his fingers, humming absentmindedly as he leaned back on one arm and looked up to the dark, starless sky._

_For the first time that day, Geralt spoke, the tug of a smile playing at the corners of his lips as he ripped off a piece of the dried meat. “Jaskier, you’ve been carrying that thing around for two days, just do it a favor and let it die already.”_

_Jaskier looked genuinely surprised. He had been trying to elicit a response, any type of response from Geralt for quite some time now, presumably hoping to spark a conversation. But, as usual, Geralt had refused the bait. He was annoyingly hard to incite these days and it was driving Jaskier mad. Now, as the night grew longer Geralt had finally spoken. And of all the words in all the tongues, he had chosen those._

_Jaskier rolled his eyes. He took but a moment to collect his thoughts and swallow the lump in his throat before he continued, a sour bite to his tone. “This little flower is more than just a dying plant, Geralt. Where I come from it’s a symbol of hope. My mother, Gods rest her, always used to tell me that...that when she looked into my eyes she could see the fields of cornflowers, peppered in the wild grasses long before the earth was tilled and paths cut like veins through the land. And...while it may seem silly to you, people, in general, are painfully sentimental creatures. Our memories, dreams, disasters, and wars are tied to the most insignificant things. They surround us and we barely even notice them, things we take for granted or forget altogether. Something so insignificant, so delicate and precious, as the sight of a beautiful flower can send you plummeting into the depths. Days long-gone, and people who are little more than memories, now intangible and yet inescapable.” He twirled the cornflower around between his finger and his thumb, thoughtfully gazing at the petals. “The warm tone of the lute, the stench of pisswater ale, the death rattle of a fallen soldier, the scent of blood as it seeps into the damp earth.”_

_For the first time that day, all was quiet, it roused Geralt from his thoughts. The witcher was suddenly painfully aware of the smothering silence as the light of the fire began to glint off of the tears that gathered along Jaskier’s dark eyelashes, the piercing blue drowning in the glow of the firelight._

_"They say that the eyes are the window to the soul, Geralt. That they can tell more than one thousand stories could." He mumbled, his voice little more than a deep whisper, "So tell me, what do you see when you look into mine?”_

_Geralt fought the urge to shrink from his eyes as they drifted upward, the brilliant blue locking sights with his own._

_Utterly uncomfortable and unsure of what to say, Geralt cleared his throat and with all the surety he could muster, he muttered dismissively._

_"That you need rest." And with that Geralt rolled over and went to sleep._

_Jaskier sighed. Resting his chin on his knees and tossing the wilting flower onto the fire, he watched intently as the flames reduced it to little more than ash._

* * *

Geralt cleared his throat, running his hand over his face to pull the droplets of water from his skin.

“I met the bard in Posada. Jaskier. He was young and far too enthusiastic. I believe he sensed a business opportunity and much to my dismay he followed me. We traveled for quite some time together but as you can imagine, the life of a witcher is not well suited for a…” He searched for the right word but couldn’t seem to find one.

“A bard, eh? That sounds rather entertaining. Particularly considering how sociable you are, I can only imagine he drove you absolutely mad.” Ciri smirked.

Geralt looked up at her, his eyes tired and flat. He mustered what she could only assume was an attempt at a smile, but ended up nothing more than an ugly grimace. Reluctantly he carried on, recounting incredibly condensed versions of their travels and the trouble that seemed to follow them day and night.

She listened intently, wrapping her hands back around the hot earthenware mug of tea. Eventually, his voice pittered out and he averted her gaze, his eyes wandered back to the flower once again.

“I wish he were here now, I should very much like to meet him. I’d love to hear his telling of the tales. You know Geralt, for someone with a rather exciting life your stories are positively stodgy at best. And if nothing else, I’m sure he’d make for more enjoyable company and conversation." Ciri teased, her voice flitting with a gentle laugh. When Geralt didn’t flinch, she leaned forward and set her small, cold hand on his forearm. “It was a joke.” She smiled reassuringly at him, hoping it would encourage him to speak.

Geralt’s almost chuckled as he scowled at the plate that had been set before him, slowly and deliberately eating. Ciri let the silence hang for a moment, not wanting to push him to retreat deeper into the gloomy solitude that he so preferred. 

"Geralt. What happened to him?" 

"I told him to leave and...he did." She watched carefully as his eyes wandered back to the flower. "I always assumed he would turn up again, that he would find me or by some sick twist of fate I would stumble upon him performing in a tavern or town square somewhere. I couldn't seem to escape the bastard. But..” He opened his mouth to say more but stopped as the woman knocked, letting them know she had drawn a hot bath in the other room for them. 

Ciri didn’t wait for Geralt, tearing off a large piece of the warm bread, her eyes still trained on his face. He stared into his ale, listening to the drunkards across the tavern shout songs about witchers and elves, while a single shirtless drunk stood upon a table screaming a different song - also one of Jaskier’s. He pursed his lips and snorted before he began again.

“That little fuck. His words follow me everywhere I go. I hear them in taverns and on the streets of towns from Toussaint to Flotsam. Even in the goddamned woods, hunters whistle as they set out to check their traps. And yet, he is nowhere to be found." He took a long drink of his ale, exhaling sharply and hardening his already stern features. The snakes in his gut twisted at the sight of Ciri's furrowed brow. He could smell it on her, the salt of fear. 

"Go.” He nodded towards the tub. “Before it’s cold. I need to see a woman about destiny or something.” He smiled, it was small but it was genuine and Ciri threw herself forward, hugging him about the waist. Unsure of how to proceed, he awkwardly placed his large hand upon her flaxen curls and wrapped the other around her shoulder. 

“Trust me Ciri, it's better this way. I'm sure he's fine. Warming himself in the bed of some countess, or count for that matter. Wherever he is, Jaskier is much safer than he would be with us."

* * *

  
  


“Good morning, my little bird.” The voice rang through the darkness like a silver bell. It was strong and piercing but soft like crushed velvet. It startled Jaskier, rousing him from the waking nightmare he was slowly drowning in and igniting a primal panic deep within his ribs. It was a barbed thread that pulled him back to consciousness, grounding him to this painful hell. The sweet, fetid stench of death and decay hung in the air like a fog. 

He craned his neck to look around the room. Dust floated like snow in the soft streams of grey light that filtered in through the old windows. She was a picture of perfection, dancing barefoot in the dark and singing a haunting tune in an ancient tongue. She wore nothing but his shirt which draped loosely over her shoulders and hung about her elbows as she spun like a dancer on a music box, twitching and writhing like some sort of demon. The sound and the sight of her filled him with the same horror and dread that it had that first night.

She wasn’t human, of that much he was certain. She was something ancient, something wicked. 

"I'll keep the king...when you are gone...away…into darkness and howling, I'll keep him from drowning… in that house at the top...of the rock." Her final note rang out as she landed gracefully on the balls of her feet in front of the glass doors to the balcony. Dramatically she flung the ornate, black frames open, letting in the howling winds, the cry of seabirds, and the smell of the cold, grey sea. 

Her voice and her body were mesmerizing and he watched her dazedly from where he lay, barely able to lift his head. The light that caught on the contours of her bare skin seemed to glow. She was suddenly upon him, her warm breath on his lips, her hips floating above his. She was faster than the blink of an eye and he wasn't sure if he'd ever get used to it. 

"Tell me, my bird…" she whispered upon his lips. She ran her hands down his bare, cold arms, stopping briefly to delicately finger the broken bone through the hot, red skin. He braced himself, his breath hitching in his throat as he tried not to cry out. 

“Please...please I need to see a healer. I’m ill. I…” The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

As if she hadn’t heard him, she rolled off and slid her hand into his, interlocking their fingers as she gazed up at the intricate white and crimson lace of the canopy that hung from the tall bedposts.

"Tell me again, the story of how we met." She cooed sweetly as she nuzzled against his shoulder. 

He swallowed hard, his hoarse voice trembling. "You already know the tale, you were...you were there that night." 

She rolled over onto her stomach and propped her head up in her hands, her eyes black as ink. "Indulge me, darling." Her voice was electric. 

"My travels had brought me down as far south as Murkwood and I sought passage back north to Oxenfurt. I had little coin and..." She ran her fingers across his chest, tracing the veins under his skin, her lips parting ever-so-slightly as he spoke. His voice shook furiously as he tried not to cry. "And I…I had set up for the night in the tavern on the port hoping to...earn enough with my performance to secure passage a...across the sea." 

He was no longer looking at her as he spoke, too exhausted and worn far too thin to scramble away or attempt to escape her delicate touch. He no longer fought tirelessly to save his life, rather begging the gods and anyone else who would listen, to end his agony. 

He traced patterns in the fabric above them with his eyes as he let the tears slide down the side of his face and around his ears. He tried to continue but he couldn't seem to speak. The harder he tried to keep his composure the faster and more violently it cracked. She laid her head down upon his chest, continuing the story for him, her voice like cream and honey.

"It was going rather well. You made enough to book passage on the transport leaving the following day. The night air was frigid and the sweltering tavern full of drunkards, milkmaids, and weary travelers. So…” She paused to lean closer to him, planting soft kisses along his collarbones. “So you traipsed out of the tavern, aimlessly stumbling down the rocky coast to the water's edge.” 

Jaskier stifled a sob as she ran her hand down his thigh, fingers passing over the protrusion of bone just below his thigh and the hot, swollen flesh that it had ripped through. She paused for only a moment before tracing her tender touch between his legs. “You, my bird, had had _far_ too much ale and you wandered blindly along the shore until you found a house upon a cliff, overlooking the sea.” 

He wept silently as she recalled the tale, trying desperately to think of anything but her words or her touch. 

“Surely it was abandoned, you thought, dark and in grave disrepair, alone on that cliff it stood, battered by the storms. You sought shelter from the rain inside. Making your way up the tower you found yourself in this...very room. You came to me, you sang to me and pulled me from my slumber.” 

His throat bobbed and he choked on a sob as she rolled astride him. She hummed as she moved her hands to hover over his throat as if poised to choke him. “You sang of longing and heartache and then, my beautiful little bird, you threw yourself into the sea.”

He winced, waiting for her to continue. 

“I watched in horror and awe as your body smashed against the rocks and you sunk into the cove. You came to me and you didn’t even know it, as if led by fate, into my open arms. Destiny, it seems, had plans for you, dearheart. I pulled you from the depths. I saved you and when the storm passes and the moon ripples on the sea, I will make you whole again.”

The knot in his stomach twisted and he retched violently. He turned as far to the side as he could, trying his best not to choke on the blood and bile. She stopped in front of him, sitting back on her heels, and once again lifting his chin. Her fingers firmly gripped his cheeks as she turned his head from side to side as if inspecting a piece of fine, glazed porcelain.

“What is that lovely song of yours, my bird? The one about the flowers...won’t you sing it for me?” 

He tried to slow his fluttering heart, control his hyperventilating, but that only seemed to make matters worse. The woman seemed intrigued by his sudden change, cocking her head to the side like a curious animal as she leaned in closer to his face.

“I’m waiting, love.” She cooed distractedly as she gently ran the back of her hand over his sweaty forehead, brushing his hair from his face. 

“Y-your...” His exhausted body exploded into a panic, what little energy he had left was expended in his racing heart and shallow breaths causing his world to spin, as he tried to swallow the lump in his throat, his stomach threatening to turn once more. 

“Sing...sweet nightingale.” She whispered into his ear as she ground her hips against his, her hands tangled in his hair, and her lips brushing against his feverish skin. 

“Y...your voice, it carries over the hubbub and the hum. And it…it paints the sky and circles high like the b-beating...of a drum.” He had since abandoned the melody, sputtering the words out as best he could. “You...you will scream ‘I won’t forget you’ b-but...I’ll cover my cold ears...it cannot be a lie...if no one hears…”

His words echoed off the damp stone as she sank her teeth into the flesh of his chest. A bloodcurdling scream ripped through him, threatening to fold him up like a paper fan. He slipped through the broken shards of consciousness and back into the sea. 

From the waters, a figure emerged to stand at his feet, as he had a thousand times before and surely would a thousand times over again. Geralt stood before him, silent and stoic, his haunting golden eyes cut through the darkness, full of hate fire _._ He opened his mouth to speak, but all Jaskier could hear was the raging storm outside the window as the lightning ripped through the dark sky and thunder shook the walls. 

* * *

my heart bleeds for these morons. I hope you enjoy

\- ingersøl

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Sacrifices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt has an important decision to make. Jaskier can't help but linger on the past. 
> 
> I can’t promise my updates will always be consistent because my life is absolutely insane. I might post multiple times in a week or wait weeks before posting. I feel really awful for doing that because I am a creature of habit and consistency is my bread and butter, but here we are. If you don’t feel it’s ready, blame lemons, its her fault.
> 
> summary courtesy of my lovely friend, lemon: Geralt gets more than he BARDgained for. GET IT?

**All Hell and It's Fire**

**Chapter Two: Sacrifices**

by Ingersøl & Lemon

* * *

CW: disturbing imagery, ritual, violence and gore

AN: Morana's name has been changed to Ljenka for reasons that may or may not come to light later on in the story. Going back and doing some formating. xo, lemon

。。。oOo 。。。

Geralt huffed.

There it was again. That word…destiny. Everyone and their goddamned fucking destiny. 

Armies cowered before it, weeping mothers threw their babes at its feet, and when the fields burned and cities fell, survivors wailed to the skies and begged for mercy. 

Couldn’t he just pay for his room and then leave, like anyone else? No. Of course not. It was never that simple.

He turned the corner to the bar, the tavern was utterly empty save for the tavernkeep and the young man. They spoke in hushed, frantic tones in a language he didn’t recognize. It was vaguely familiar but he couldn’t seem to place it. 

_Hmm_. 

“Sir witcher.” The woman bowed gracefully and gestured to a chair set in front of the roaring fire. The wind howled outside and the rain beat relentlessly against the structure. He walked forward warily as he took his place before the fire. 

Geralt broke the silence, his rough voice like the growl of an old dog. “You wanted to speak to me.”

The tension was palpable, he could smell their trepidation. The taut silence was only eased by the sounds of the fire and the storms outside. Finally, the woman tugged on her aprons and spoke.

“I don’t know how much you remember of our last encounter, master witcher. My name is Ljenka and this is my... _son_ Kozlak.” She hesitated for a fraction of a second, trying not to draw attention to the obvious lie. 

_Hmm_. Geralt lifted his eyebrows, making no move to hide just how unbelievable that lie was. 

“I remember you... but not _you_.” Geralt cast his eyes from the flames to the young man. "Tell me, boy. How old are you? Older than nine I'd wager." 

Kozlak smiled at Geralt. "Quite."

_Hmm._

Ljenka interjected. “Do you remember why I called upon you in your travels all those years ago?”

Unfortunately, yes. He had a feeling he knew exactly where this conversation was headed. 

The answer was no. Absolutely not. Not in the twelve hells.

“Yes, to kill an ekimma. But...if memory serves, it wasn't an ekimma at all. It was a bruxa. You know I often wondered whether you knew that, Ljenka, when you sent me to that fucking shack in the first place to kill it." He snarled, his gold eyes alight with the glow of the fire.

She opened her mouth to speak but he held up a hand. "I appreciate what you've done for me Ljenka, I'll pay for our room and board but that is all. The girl and I will depart as soon as the storm passes. I'm not interested."

The two looked at each other, their faces a mix of disappointment, surprise, and panic. Kozlak broke the silence, turning back to Geralt.

“And yet, though woefully underprepared for the task you had been charged with, you were successful,” Kozlak spoke with a command beyond his years. “We fear that...an alpor or a bruxa has taken up residence in the very same house at the top of the rock.”

“Hmm.” 

Ljenka spoke, carefully gauging Geralt’s responses. “Four men disappeared in a fortnight, another just last night. That is only to speak of the locals, those who people have taken notice of. We know not how many travelers have crossed our threshold and never made it home or to the port. But we suspect some may have fallen prey as well. 

As of late, at least one man wandered out into the night and vanished, leaving all his belongings and coin behind, nary a whisper in the wind. We fear this is only the beginning of something much larger.”

"Unusual." Geralt mused. 

"Quite." Said Kozlak. 

Geralt rested the back of his fist against his mouth, leaning heavily on the arm of the chair. His thoughts immediately turned to Ciri. She was not ready to fight an ekimma, say nothing of a bruxa or an alp. She had seen so much carnage so young, and he was certain she was not prepared for whatever lay in wait in that house. But could he focus on the task at hand if he left her side, unguarded in some backwater port? 

“If it’s the young lady, you’re worried about, know this: there is no safer place in all the Continent than within these walls. I will keep her safe,” Ljenka stood, all five feet of her looking as though she would take a cast iron pan to Geralt's face if it so pleased her. 

“No offense, my lady, but if you can’t protect your own patrons how can you possibly hope to guarantee her safety?” Geralt nearly chortled at the thought, standing to leave. He had nothing more to say and staying would only prolong the inevitable begging. 

"I’m going with you.” Kozlak moved to stand between Geralt and the door, carrying himself with surety and confidence. 

Geralt stopped dead in his tracks, a crooked, devilish smile twisting his features. “If you're so capable of the task, boy, then why do you need me at all? Why not just kill it yourself, hmm?" 

“Trust me, you may just find that my insights and skills prove invaluable to you. And if the girl sees daylight with so much as a hair lost, my life will be yours to do with as you see fit.” Kozlak stood, straightening his shoulders, the jovial smile fading quickly from his face. “There is something wicked in the wind, Geralt. Help me to stop the creature and you will be handsomely rewarded.”

That would be the day, when some kid in Murkwood would be able to provide any sort of insight on monster slaying to a witcher, and a rather experienced one at that. Geralt was wholly unconvinced, looking to Ljenka who simply nodded confidently at him. He rolled his shoulder and shook his head. 

This just kept getting better, didn’t it?

“Fucking hell.” He muttered to himself, tossing the flower into the fire and watching as it quickly reduced to a smoking stain of soot. "It won’t be cheap. I take half up front." Geralt added. 

Ljenka was prepared and placed a large sack of coin in his hand. 

"One thousand and five hundred denar." She tucked the loose lock of hair that had fallen into her eyes behind her ear, her hopeful, dark eyes darting across his face. 

Geralt stared at the bag in his hand stupidly.

After a moment Kozlak turned towards the door to the tavern as if he sensed something. “We don’t have much time.”

。。。oOo 。。。

Jaskier lay awake, thankfully a true rarity for him these days. He could barely lift his head or turn it from one side to the other, still he suspected he was alone. Yvel was never quiet for long when she was here. He was too relieved at her sudden absence to worry about where she had gotten off to. His own personal demon, I mean, he had always loved attention but this was most certainly not what he had in mind. While his fitful sleeps were full of nightmares and hallucinations, his waking hours were significantly more agonizing, and arguably more horrifying and confusing. 

The same song had been playing in his head for quite some time, he needed to finish it but he was certain he wouldn’t have time for that. He was coming to accept it. Even if he had, he wouldn’t know how to finish it. He tried to sing, hell, he would’ve settled for muttering, but he couldn’t seem to manage even that. That was probably for the best though, the sound of his own voice was nothing but a painful reminder of the rather slow and agonizing death drawn out by some absolutely mad creature who had taken to him for some inexplicable reason. 

Jaskier had sung it countless times, always in bits and pieces as he worked and reworked the melody and verse. It had started about Geralt, the concept of a tortured youth, turned into a monster against his will, trained to kill monsters - on top of that, rather hauntingly handsome and emotionally stunted. It had the making of a ballad that would weaken the knees. 

Geralt had never questioned it, but if he was being honest with himself, Jaskier was unsure that Geralt had ever _really_ listened to him, whether he was singing or not. 

He had not originally written it with himself in mind, that thought was laughable. After his departure on the mountain, as time wore on, he regretfully saw more and more of himself in the words. 

_Traveling so far to get there_

_All just to be here again_

_All just to see what they saw_

_Back then_

It was far from finished and if Geralt had known what it was if he truly understood it, and what it represented…

If he had actually _listened_ to the words the bard had sung over and over again as he walked alongside Roach, or scrubbed the week's worth of grime from his skin, or as he stoked the campfire and gazed at the starry sky…

Oh, ho, ho. Oh, ho, ho, ho...Geralt would’ve cut out his tongue and worn it around his neck, a lovely addition to that silver wolf pendant. After that, he would probably beat Jaskier to death with his own lute.

Pity he’d never get the chance now.

The thought made him chuckle and he felt tears sting his eyes, but his lungs were so thick that the sound of his laughter was little more than a pathetic rasp. It set off an exhaustive fit of coughing. The sensation was rather like drowning on dry land, as though he had never been pulled from the cold depths that he had cast himself into all those nights ago.

Gods, how he wished that he hated that man. By all accounts, he would be entirely justified if he did. But even if he could bring himself to...

He wondered how Geralt was getting on these days. Cintra had burned. Had he been there or had he looked on as Nilfgaard razed the city. Where was the child? Was he still running from Destiny, still clamoring after Yennefer…

Just the thought of that witch...that bewitcher of witchers, made his stomach turn.

He danced around the subject, never letting the thought itself fully form in his mind. It was much like seeing it from the corner of his eyes and refusing to turn to look because he did not wish to see. Was he really that unbearable? He had always just considered it part of his boyish charm. Jaskier was young and bright-eyed and quite the hopeless, bleeding-heart romantic. He had always been quick to fall in love and out of it once again. Now if he could just do it on command, with the strike of a match he could rip his life from the pages of Geralt’s story and the witcher would finally be happy, and Jaskier would be free at last. 

He was just so tired. The pain that splintered and sparked from every nerve in his body was beginning to subside. Sort of like slipping frostbitten skin into warm water. It burned like ice, then like fire, and then he simply felt nothing at all. He could no longer feel the pain in his ribs, his head, his broken bones. 

Every single time he closed his eyes he prayed that they would not open again. He was simply exhausted; wrung dry, like a piece of wet silk. He was stained cloth scrubbed harshly against a washboard til the intricate patterns began to fade and the embroidery snagged and began to unravel. 

If he could just bring himself to hate Geralt. He tried to remember the stern contours of the witcher’s face as he slipped in and out of the waking world. He shivered in a cold sweat as the fire in his blood raged. Eventually the fever gave way to seizures, and his nightmares took hold of him once more.

So far under the surface, he was, that he did not wake to the anguished wails of the men that echoed through the old house.

Yvel was back and she had been busy.

。。。oOo 。。。

Geralt hadn’t thought about how he was going to tell Ciri that he was leaving her alone that night in a strange town with a strange woman to hunt a vampire with some plucky kid. 

He pushed the door open and Ciri jumped. She had been sprawled out on her bed, clean and wrapped in quilts.

“You brute! You scared me! Have you ever heard of knocking?” She chided, disguising her fright with a tense laugh but he could hear her heart fluttering in her chest. She was still terrified. Every moment threatening to take what she had left and leave her scrambling to survive. 

Something ached in his chest and he hated it. It reminded him of his youth much more than he would’ve liked to admit. But now was most definitely not the time to think about that. 

It was at this point that he realized he hadn’t responded to her and made a paltry effort to apologize. It was painfully awkward and Ciri stifled a giggle. 

Something was wrong. He made no effort to move from the doorway, standing awkwardly. 

“Geralt. What are you doing?” As if her voice had jump-started his brain he began bustling around the room, swiftly but calm. He wasted no time rummaging through his bags, gathering what he would need. Piling the items on the table as he sat to don his armor. Ciri leaned forward to get a better look at the table. 

“Geralt, is that...is that a _bomb_?” She questioned in utter disbelief. 

_Yep._

He grunted in affirmation but made no move to explain himself other than muttering the word “moondust”.

“Geralt, stop! What is going on? Where are we going?” She shouted, panic dripping from her shaking voice. 

“Not we. Stay here. I’ll be back by sunrise.” 

_Probably._

“You’re not leaving me here, are you? Where are you going?” He was standing now, gathering the vials, oils, and weapons into his bag. She scrambled to block him from the door, her hands pressed against his coarse, leather armor as she tried not to fall into hysterics. “Geralt. Stop. You can’t just leave like that. You promised me you wouldn’t.” Her voice laced with anguish and raw panic.

He hesitated, swallowing the lump in his throat. Pulling her away, he grabbed her firmly by the shoulders and looked into her eyes. 

“Ciri. It’s too dangerous. Stay here with Ljenka. I will be back, I promise you this.” 

He wanted to say more but he had nothing to say. So instead he held her, resting his chin upon the top of her head. He held her the way that he had wished someone had held him so many years ago as he had taken on all the horrors of the night alone. It seemed like lifetimes ago, he supposed, to a human, it was.

He stepped back and pulled a Temerian longsword from his back. The grip was easily as long as Ciri’s forearm. It had an ornate handle of folded blue leather, the hilt and pommel, adorned with intricate patterns of folded white gold. It was almost as tall as she was. 

“Get used to the feeling of this, when we reach Kaer Morhen we’ll begin your training. Stay inside. I will return to you, I promise.” He set his hand on her head and smiled at her before he walked out the door. 

Geralt stepped out into the wind and breathed the night in deep. The rain and the thunder had ceased all but suddenly. He grimaced, if they had just waited a few more hours they could’ve skipped the town entirely, never stepping foot in the tavern. And yet, here they were. 

Kozlak stood beside him, hand resting on the hilt of his sword as he sniffed the air.

“Than-” He started but Geralt cut him off, holding up his hand. 

“Don’t thank me. Not until we kill it.” He grumbled. 

。。。oOo 。。。

  
  


A circle of black salt filled the center of the floor stretching nearly three meters across. Atop it lay a collection of hastily stripped human bones, sinew still clinging to them. Every fifteen centimeters sat a large candle, the black flames flickering softly in the moonlight that spilled through the windows. The corpses of three ravens sprawled around either side of the circle of bones and salt, their wings extended as if frozen in mid-flight and their eyes carved from their skulls and set to the left side of their skulls.

Yvel wiped the hot blood from her hands, inspecting her work. The once white cloth of Jaskier's blouse was now painted dark with stains of charcoal, blood, and viscera. She pulled it tightly about her and twirled in the moonlight as she squealed with excitement. She danced about, feet barely touching the floor as she lifted the large, ornate bowl made of ox-bone from the center of the circle and brought it to the bedside.

She gathered her materials together. Strewn across the foot of the bed was a bundle of fresh juniper branches, the feathers of six raven wings, a black candle made from virgin tallow, the breastbone of a nightingale, a lock of his hair, a lock of her own, a string of catgut, and a large sprig of black-velvet sage. Gracefully she worked. Placing them in their prescribed order, muttering spells and prayers over each according to tradition. She thumbed the salvaged string of catgut from the lute she had fished from the sea that fated night. It twisted as the woman wove it together with the locks of their hair. 

She gazed at him, his pale body now riddled with punctures and crescent wounds, where she had suckled him, fed from him for pleasure, or in hopes that she could bleed the infection from him. She simply did not know enough about these glass creatures to stitch them back together in all their fragile delicacies. They were like pressed parchment in the rain, a little pressure and they would simply fall to tiny pieces. Jaskier’s frail body seized and shook, rasping breath rattling in his chest. The fever tore through him like ravenous flames as the infection consumed his flesh.

Yvel’s fingertips were black with charcoal, and they left smudges in the cold sweat across his skin. Yvel lifted his hand and tenderly planted a kiss in his cold palm, breathing in the smell of his sweat and the memory of cedar, camphor, and the faintest note of whiskey. Her large eyes still fixed on his beautiful face, she sliced his palm down the middle and turned it over, squeezing the wound as the blood trickled down his wrist and into the bowl. He did not rouse from his fever dream as the blood gushed down his arm and onto the sheets. She recoiled at the rancid wound. When he came to her his blood had been so pure, the very scent of it was exhilarating. His illness, or infection, or whatever it was had spoiled it, poisoning the sweetest of wines.

Pity that it would never taste the same again. 

Reverently she swirled her fingers around his bloody palm, using it to paint hard lines and symbols across her chest and face. Then slicing open her own hand, she did the same to him before lifting him from the bed. She whispered to him in forgotten tongues as she squeezed her fist and let the blood dribble onto his lips and into his mouth. When she finished her chanting she stripped him of the rest of his clothing and carried him to the circle. There she laid him down upon the bed of pine branches inside the circle of salt and bone, the black candlelight illuminating his bent and broken body. 

She threw the double doors wide open and the crashing of the waves against the rocky shoreline filled the room like a symphony. The storms no longer raged on and the full moon shone bright upon the surface of the waters. 

It was almost time.

“Wake, my little bird. The witching hour draws nigh and the time has come to make you whole.”

。。。oOo 。。。   
  


AN: I promise you it won’t be like this forever, there will be different flavors of suffering and also joy and happiness too. 

\- ingersøl


	3. The Witching Hour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: disturbing imagery, violence, death, decapitation
> 
> Geralt gets more than he bargained for, Jaskier just wants a moment of peace but it seems that even that is too much to ask.
> 
> summary courtesy of lemon: in which Geralt wants to kill Kozlak, Kozlak wants to kill Yvel, Yvel wants to kill Geralt, and Jaskier just wishes someone would kill him.

**All hell and It's Fire**

**Chapter Three: The Witching Hour**

* * *

by Ingersøl & Lemon

* * *

CW: disturbing imagery, violence, death

* * *

“Don’t laugh at me, you brute. It’s true.” Jaskier chuckled as he gingerly brushed his hair out of his eyes. “It is a universally accepted truth,” He said softly, as he rolled over, pulling the sheets down from around himself and resting his head on his hands, “maidens and lads alike would agree, nothing compares to the hands of a lutenist. Though the fingers _can_ be calloused...” He whispered as he let his lips dance across the salty skin, leaving soft kisses along the contours of scars, both old and new. He slipped his hand under the tangle of sheets once more. “Now, you may think that this is born from the dexterity required to play the lute, whether it be a six-course or ten-course… but I say that’s not the case. Rather it lies within the maintenance of the instrument itself. The attention required to care for the fragile thing is a breeding ground for the careful lover. Lutes are fragile things.” He nearly lost his breath as the man nuzzled against his throat, breathing him in deep before mercilessly flipping Jaskier onto his stomach. “Th-they’re _incredibly_ fragile things." He smirked, suppressing a moan as he was pushed further into the bed. "I mean, just the strings alone-” He gasped as his hands twisted fistfuls of the sheets, as they shook the creaking wooden bed. 

“G-Geralt...” 

As if he had been struck by lightning, Jaskier’s limp body spasmed and his eyes shot open. Before he could take in his surroundings they rolled back into his head, his mouth agape as his back arched off the floor, digging his shoulders into the pine branches below him. His lungs burst into action but he couldn’t seem to control his breathing, he felt like he was going to throw up, pass out, or quite possibly both. 

_Oh. Yep. Definitely both._

He choked on the hot bile and felt it blister his dry, raw throat as he sputtered, trying his best to continue to breathe. And just like that, he was ripped from the arms of rest once more by his cruel reality. 

Leave it to him to be in the throes of agonizing death at the hands of some mad creature of darkness and all he could think about was sex. 

_Not just sex, no, of course not. Sex with someone who hates you and wants you dead. I mean, to be completely fair you’ve been through hell so maybe you deserve a little-_

  
  


"Come now, listen closely, my bird.” She ran her hands over his face as she tried desperately to capture his wandering focus. He wanted to recoil from the tender touch, to scream or to beg, to push her away and run, but he was utterly paralyzed.

“You...you will feel pain and agony like you have never known before.” She held his face and stared into his eyes as they darted around madly. He was hyperventilating and his heartbeat was thick and erratic as if at any moment it would burst forth from his chest or cease altogether. As she felt his panic rise, she pulled him closer to her chest, cradling his head on her folded lap. Jaskier could feel her trepidation, her panic as she held him against her bare skin. Whatever was about to happen she was scared of it and that was possibly more terrifying than the death circle of fleshy bones and plants he currently found himself lying in.

“You will know hunger that gnaws inside you like a rabid beast. It will drive you to madness if you let it. I will teach you to control it, to harness it. Know this, no matter where you go or how many centuries we are apart, our bond can never be broken." She whispered. He was listening once more, as she spoke to him with unmatched urgency smoothing the matted, sweaty hair from his forehead and rubbing her thumb against his cheek. He would’ve found the gesture incredibly comforting if it had been pretty much anyone other than Yvel.

Sorrow scrunched the soft lines of her face as she wrapped the shirt that he had once worn into a twisted knot, shoving it in his mouth.

The discomfort of the bloodied blouse stuffed between his teeth was all but forgotten in moments as she whispered to him one final time and sunk the dagger into the flesh directly below his sternum. 

“Sing, my little bird.” 

The wails of anguish that clawed through him sounded foreign and far away, not human at all. Yvel slid the dagger further down his abdomen and twisted it deep into his gut. 

Thunder echoed across the coast, they would need to hurry if she was to finish before the moon hid its face behind the heavy storm clouds once more. She curled one hand tightly around the grip of the dagger and the other over the pommel as she pushed it further into him, wincing as she went. 

It was only then that he became aware of her chanting, some long-forgotten tongue of old. As she finished her song the black salt burst into roaring flames.

He looked down at his gut in horror as he watched the blood well and bubble from the deep wound. Like fracturing glass, it ripped through every vessel and vein in his chest, the force so great that it threatened to rupture the skin and snap the bones like twigs underfoot. 

The darkness began to trail along his chest, down his arms, and up to his neck. The color a stark contrast, as if his blood had been supplanted for the blackest of inks. His veins surfaced like bruises under the pale skin until they mapped his entire body. 

He set his head back upon the branches where he lay, no longer struggling to maintain focus. The pain began to dampen, and soon he felt nothing at all, like sinking. Jaskier smiled and let himself weep. 

Finally. He was free. 

* * *

A woman’s voice floated from somewhere deeper in the house. Seemed to be some sort of chant or song before he could make out the words Kozlak lifted his foot and shook his leg, dislodging a large chunk of water-logged flesh from the toe of his boot. His footsteps sloshed through the standing water that flooded the ground level of the house. 

Geralt turned to him, a sharp glare enough to quiet the young man’s steps to nearly imperceptible. 

Geralt’s meditative state was shattered by the agonizing caterwauls that seemed to echo and bounce off every surface in the dilapidated house. He stopped for a moment to pop the cork on a small vial and swallow it's contents, casting it aside, before moving lithely up the spiraling stairs. 

Geralt followed the agonizing wailing to a room on the third floor of the house, he stopped outside the door and turned to look for the boy, Kozlak was right behind him, much to his surprise. 

And then all was still. 

The chanting stopped and the screams followed soon after. 

All was still, save for the roaring of flames and the distant rumble of thunder from the sea.

* * *

“I don’t believe you were invited to this most sacred ceremony.” Yvel stood gracefully from where she straddled the bloodied body, cradled in pine boughs. Her hands came to rest on her hips and she pursed her lips in mild annoyance. Shrugging her arms, she let them fall to her sides in exasperation. The witcher cursed and entered the room. The creature was petite and utterly naked, skin as pale as the moon, a stark contrast to her black eyes and raven hair. On all accounts, she looked entirely human, but he wasn't that stupid. The flames illuminated the blood that coated her chest and arms as she stepped safely through the white-hot flames. “Since you’re here, you might as well stay. Allow me to introduce myself, I am the one they call Yvel.”

The creature stood between the witcher and the flames. Her arms to her sides, she gripped the handle of the bloodied dagger tight. Geralt could hear the gentle _plip, plip, plip_ as the blood dribbled from her hands to the floor. 

Geralt and the woman circled each other in a slow rotation, two predators in the throes of the hunt. They matched each other's steps, neither gaining nor losing footing.

“This is the part where you tell me your name.” She snarled as she pointed the tip of the dagger at Geralt. “Wait…” she chuckled. “Oh, this is brilliant, now isn’t it? You’re Geralt of Rivia.” She laughed hysterically halting her advance. Geralt stood poised and unmoving as he watched her carefully. He made one sideways glance and the smallest nod to Kozlak. The boy nodded in return and slinked into the shadow. “A witcher and his whelp.” She snarled. “Oh, ho, ho. How blessed this union must be to warrant such an appearance. Fate surely smiles upon us tonight.” 

“To hell with your fate.” Geralt spat. 

“Oh, gods...Geralt! I think...I think he’s still alive,” Kozlak called in horror as he took a step closer. He had made it across the room and to the other side of the flames, Yvel too preoccupied with Geralt, to notice him inch closer.

"You will not claim him, witcher. Not this night nor any hereafter. Leave this place, and take your pet with you. Return in two days and collect the bones of those who fell in this cursed place. Bless them and bury them in their churchyards and seek comfort and solace in the fact that their sacrifices were not in vain. They died for a good cause.” 

The sound of his sword colliding with her small dagger rang through the room. She was incredibly fast and agile but Geralt was fast and ruthless. Two incredibly skilled fighters and not a moment of hesitation in a single blow. He had no time for distraction, losing his focus for even a moment could turn the tide of the struggle. Suddenly the seamless dance of the struggle was broken as she pivoted, turning her back to Geralt and screeching at Kozlak as he stabbed his sword through the circle. As it broke the flames extinguished producing a shock wave sent them flying backward - Yvel hit the wall, and Geralt the post of the bed. Kozlak had barely avoided the same fate, gripping his sword tightly where it had been thrust through the wooden floorboards. 

_Fuck_. 

Yvel stood, staring as Kozlak knelt beside the body once wreathed in flame. She opened her mouth to scream but choked on the sound as Geralt’s sword ran through her chest. She dropped with a thud but didn’t stay down for long. Struggling for air, she began to drag herself across the floor towards the broken circle. 

Geralt marched past her to stand opposite Kozlak, who had just finished muttering his incantation. 

“Geralt...something’s not right here.” His eyes wandered and Geralt could see the wheels in Kozlak’s brain spinning. Then something clicked and he launched himself forward. 

“What have you done?” Kozlak howled, and in an instant he was across the room, standing over Yvel. He grabbed her by the hair and wrenched her head upwards. She laughed, blood dribbling from her mouth. 

“He is mine and nothing in all the worlds and their hells could change that. The bond will remain...forever unbroken. I hope you realize what you’re doing, witcher. Without me, you’ll have no hope of contr-” 

Geralt looked down at her coldly as he swung his sword, lobbing off her head, her hair still tangled in Kozlak’s fingers. The boy dropped the head as if it would bite him and sent it rolling across the floor.

“Well, that solves that problem.” He grumbled. “Kozlak. Get him out of here. I’ll meet you at the tavern.” 

  
  


Geralt welcomed the cool breeze rolling in from the bay as he stood at the back door to the dilapidated manor. Extending his hand towards it he drew a symbol in the air and watched as the house at the top of the rock caught fire. As he turned to the path that wound around the property and down the cliffs towards the town, he stepped upon something hearing it snap, as he began the long walk back to the tavern. In the first light of morning, he took a step back and lifted it, the sight of the ornate polished wood hitching in his throat. It was the pegbox of a lute.

* * *

* * *

  
  


  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, I tried to be less long-winded and it sort of worked out? I hope I can keep posting this consistently. Wasn’t planning on dropping this til next week but I decided I will always be rubbish at describing fights so...here we are. this is for lemon, sorry about your exams, dearheart. 
> 
> -ingersøl


	4. The Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This summary was already lemon's: Geralt grows suspicious of his gracious hosts and realizes who the unfortunate bloke that they pulled from that house on the hill, really is.
> 
> CW: graphic depiction of injuries, blood
> 
> I didn't even proof this one. It's nearly sunrise and I'm still awake so that's where we're at. I'll be editing for grammar and spelling as I catch it. My apologies.
> 
> PS I love you lemon, but if you send me another file the size of a billboard I'm going to murder you.

**All Hell and It's Fire**

**Chapter Four: The Choice**

* * *

by Ingersøl & Lemon

* * *

CW: graphic depictions of injury, blood

* * *

Ciri had sat with Ljenka much of the night and into the break of day. At first, the girl was rather uncomfortable, wanting nothing more than to be left alone and refused to release her iron grip on the hilt of the longsword that Geralt had given to her. But she soon found the tavernkeeper’s company rather enjoyable and they spent the greater part of their time laughing and talking wistfully of peaceful places and brighter days.

Ljenka had just set the kettle on for tea when she stopped suddenly as if someone had called her name. Whipping around towards the door her face scrunched in concern. She took Ciri’s hands and smiled warmly at her. Reassuring the girl that she would be right back, she rushed out of the room. 

Ciri had waited until the kettle began to boil before she got up, poured the tea, and ventured out into the hallway, a mug in each hand. She could hear frantic tones, hushed but heated through the door at the end of the hall and her curiosity got the best of her. 

They were practically hissing at each other, in some sort of debate or argument. Ciri pushed the door open with her shoulder and peeked inside. 

She had only managed to gather the words _Y_ _vel_ or maybe _evil_ and _Geralt_. 

“Ljenka...” Ciri stood wide-eyed with horror, as she watched Kozlak warily set the naked man on the empty bed. He rushed about, drawing the curtains and lighting candles to make up for the fresh light of the waking morning that he had just shut out. Ljenka held what appeared to have been an overcoat, possibly Kozlak’s, against the man’s abdomen, lifting a sheet to cover his legs and waist. From the door, Ciri could see the blood running through her fingers and soaking the sheets.

“Fret not. Geralt is well. He was not far behind Kozlak and should return soon.” Ljenka placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, gracefully positioning herself between Ciri and the man on the bed.

Ciri nodded, transfixed by the sight of the stranger. “Wh-who is that?” 

“You mean _what,_ ” Kozlak muttered absentmindedly as he lifted the man’s hand inspecting it. 

Ljenka refused to engage him, focusing on the injured stranger. “We aren’t sure.”

Ciri took a tentative step closer to the bed. The man’s face was rather pretty, with almost childish features. He was tall, nearly the same height as Geralt she'd wager, but not as muscular. He was no warrior or soldier, of that she was certain. His body was coated in ash and blood. His chest, arms, and throat were littered with wounds, some incredibly deep, usually in the form of puncture marks, and some barely more than scratches upon the surface, forming crescent moons across the wash of vivid bruises. What appeared to be a bone protruded from the inflamed flesh of his right thigh. The sight of all of it writhed in her chest, his skin reminded her of a painting of the Skelligen sky, a portrait of deep blues, purples, and yellow on a piece of fresh parchment.

The sound of the woman’s voice pulled her from her thoughts, as she stood, wiping her hands of the blood. Kozlak quickly took over, keeping pressure across the wound. “Why don't we head down to the bar and we'll get you some breakfast, you look famished."

“Is he dying?” Ciri was gripping the hot mug tightly, clutching it to her chest as if the warmth from the chipped stoneware could pull the threads of her bravery back together. 

At that very moment, the door slammed open, bouncing off the wall and back towards Geralt as he stormed in. He was across the room before Ciri had registered that it was, in fact, Geralt who had opened the door in the first place. 

“You fucking clod.” He growled as he grabbed Kozlak by the shoulder and threw the boy into the wall. A tiny mirror that hung on a wire fell to the floor as the boy smashed into it. It’s pieces rang out like chimes as they shattered and skittered across the floor.

Ciri and Ljenka both cried out. 

“What the hell was that for?” Kozlak moaned as he picked himself up off the floor. 

Geralt responded in turn by grabbing him by the shirt and lifting him off the ground, shoving him against the wall again. “You knew this was going to happen, that it was already happening. Didn’t you? You knew she had someone held up in that fucking hell house. You knew she was waiting for the full moon and best of all,” he sneered, “you know who she is. Don't you?” Geralt was screaming so loud, his voice so deep, that Ciri could barely understand what he was saying.

Kozlak looked as though he were about to cry, from pain or fear Ciri was uncertain. Probably both, if she had to guess. 

“Yes.” Barely a sound escaped his lips, his eyes glistening with tears. Geralt made no move to release him, turning his body sideways so he could see Ljenka. 

“This is twice now that you’ve done this to me, Ljenka. I’ve got to tell you, it’s starting to feel a bit personal.” His words were like ice and his yellow eyes caught the light of the candles. Ljenka stepped back from the man, unsure of what Geralt would do next. Ciri didn't need to be told to take her place and keep the pressure on the deep gash. 

Geralt watched Ljenka move like a hungry animal. Ciri had never been afraid of him...not until that very moment. 

  
The man on the bed choked abruptly as if he was drowning, gasping hungrily for air. Before Ciri had registered what had happened, his hand shot out and grabbed her by the back of the neck. He pulled her with enough force that her head nearly collided with his chest. He used the momentum to turn over onto his side, nearly rolling off the bed completely. His vibrant blue eyes shot open, roaming wildly about, like ink soaking through the fabric of a shirt, the whites of his eyes bled black until they were as dark as the night. Ciri wanted to scream but despite her terror, she was captivated by him.

Ciri grasped at the hand that pulled her closer to the bed as she felt the blood and ash smear into the skin of her neck and her hair. 

His eyes were frantic and he was trying to speak, trying to say something but he couldn’t seem to. Instead, he just choked desperately, until his eyes met hers, tears welling up on his dark lashes before falling like stars. His eyes glistened with the candlelight as his tears spilled down his cheeks, but not of salt but rather of blood so dark it was nearly black. It cut rivers across his pale face. She could feel his panic and it was paralyzing.

  
  


Then it all happened so fast. Kozlak was on the floor again, Ljenka beside Ciri cautiously pulling her away from the bedside, and Geralt stood between her and the bed, he held the man’s wrist, twisting it to the side and rendering the arm immobile. The man crumpled, hanging precariously off the edge of the bed. His stomach pressed into the sheets and blood began to soak through the linen. His head drooped off the bed, his face smashed into the sheets. He coughed and choked blood sputtering out of his mouth and speckling his face and the bedding. He managed to lift his head just enough to look at her. 

“Geralt! Don’t hurt him!” She cried out, as she reached her arm around Ljenka towards them.

"Are you alright?" Geralt turned just enough to look at Ciri but her eyes were still fixed on the face of the stranger. Geralt followed her gaze and everything stopped. 

The only sound was the crackling of the fire and the labored breathing of the man, who had slipped back into a fitful slumber. Geralt released his iron grip and gingerly turned the man on to his back. He didn’t believe it. He couldn’t. It was impossible. A trick of the light. Geralt’s lungs ceased their function as ice fractured through his chest and heart. He knelt beside the bed reverently and as tenderly as he could he rest his open palm against the man's cheek and turned his face towards him. Geralt brushed the hair from his face. 

“How long ago did this man pass through here?” Geralt’s voice was barely more than a low whisper, not a single thread of emotion in it. 

Silence greeted him and with every passing second the tension mounted. 

“You can’t tell me that of all the people who have passed through your door, that you don’t remember him.” Every word was deliberate and still, he kneeled beside the bed.

“How long?” He screamed, his hand cradling the man's head. The change in his tone was so sudden that Ciri jumped. 

When no one moved to speak he laughed darkly. “You can't tell me that he slinked by this bustling tavern with not so much as a whisper. That you didn't hear him wailing songs as he flounced about your bar like a colorful songbird, wooing your patrons?" Geralt said knowingly. "So tell me. How long ago did he pass through here? Jaskier is many things, but forgettable is not one of them."

_Jaskier?_ Ciri gazed into his face with wide, curious eyes. Was this Geralt’s former travel companion? 

“Nearly a moon.” Ljenka's voice trembled and her eyes fluttered as if she would cry. 

Kozlak puckered up the courage and stepped forward, the only one who dared move in the room. Ciri couldn’t help but think he was incredibly brave or stupid. “He's not going to survive, Geralt. His injuries are fatal. His final days, hours, moments...they will be agonizing. This man has endured enough. Is that really something you want to put him through? Besides. Even if he lives, who knows if the man who wakes in this bed will be the same man you knew. He has been _cursed_ , Geralt. Some curses are simple, predictable, dispellable even. But even in its infancy, I have never seen anything like this. None of us can begin to predict what this will do to him once it’s taken hold. If he survives long enough for it to take effect, that is.” 

“I won’t allow you to punish him for a crime he has yet to commit.” Geralt’s voice was like ice fracturing across glass. His mind was made up and nothing was going to change that. He stood, slowly removing his armor and his gloves. Emboldened by the shift in the room, Ljenka stepped forward.

“Geralt, I do hate to be fatalistic. But I'd wage a crown these bones were broken weeks ago, possibly even a month. They have yet to be set and the infection rages in his blood. I would set and bind them but I fear in his condition, he is far too unstable for that. The simple process of doing so may kill him." 

"And if we don't?" 

"Well, it may take days or weeks but his body will eventually succumb to the infection, the bleeding, or both. At that point, the best thing we could do is make sure he's comfortable as the fever rages. The choice is yours, witcher. But, if he has any hope of survival, speak nothing of recovery, it must be done and soon.”

Geralt rolled the sleeves of his tunic up to his arms to his elbows. 

“Tell me what must be done.”

* * *

The last thing Jaskier remembered was the cold blade, like ice and fire, slicing through his gut and cutting through his nerves like a thousand threads. Then the oily darkness that pumped from the dagger and into his blood tore through his veins, ripping through him like broken shards of glass. He remembered seeing the fire, feeling the heat upon his face, he was surrounded by it. And he could see Yvel’s eyes - dark and wide and unspeakably wicked as she watched him hungrily, twisting the knife deeper into his abdomen.

And then the merciful nothingness had beckoned him into its dark waters and that was where he had stayed. Until now. Now he was no longer there and no longer sinking in the nothingness he had come to find comfort in for so long. 

The light in the room was overall rather dim, but so much more than he was used to and it burned his eyes. He squinted and as his face scrunched he could feel his dry lips crack. He tried to swallow but all it did was draw attention to just how raw his throat was. He tried to lift his hands but was very quickly reminded that one of his arms was broken. He had concluded that should he pay heed to any part of himself he would surely find it in agonizing pain. 

And there she was, a young girl with the brightest green eyes and hair like buttermilk that caught the candlelight and shimmered like threads of gold. Her pretty little face was twisted into a fearful expression as she looked across the room.

Her head shot around and he could feel someone on the other side of him. The girl spoke across him but he couldn’t hear what she was saying. Then her gaze fell upon him. Her free hand resting on his forehead she smiled at him sweetly. 

Something in him ached, well, if he was being honest, all of him ached. There was pain in places he didn’t know could feel pain, it was amazingly horrible. 

She was just a child, she shouldn’t be here. It wasn’t safe, Yvel would - he couldn’t bear the thought of what might happen to her. 

Frantically he reached up towards her. She seemed to notice, her eyes widening in surprise, possibly terror. For a moment he swore he could hear, could _feel_ her heart fluttering desperately. 

Something clamped onto his head and he squirmed wildly trying to get away, his jaw was forced open and a musty, thick strip of leather forced between his teeth. His head smashed into the wood of the bedpost, as he thrashed. Cold hands gripped the raw, tender flesh of his thigh and for a fraction of a second, he could see Geralt, as if he was actually there. Close enough to touch, to smell the scent of sweat and fire. He reached for him but he was always just out of reach. And he felt himself sink into the thick, oily darkness that threatened to suffocate him. Like a hot bath it burned, then numbed, then there was nothing at all

“Hold on, Jask.” 

* * *

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was particularly tricky for me. I’m a rather lazy writer by nature and there is a lot of establishing in this chapter. On top of that my crushing reality has been rather distracting as of late. It’s awfully short and I do apologize but it just felt like the right length. More to come soon.
> 
> But I have a gift for you! A commission of everyone’s favorite, sweet bard. Fret not, better days are on his horizon. It was done by the very lovely lemon (honeylemontrash on twitter and honeylemontrashcat on instagram) 
> 
> As my grandfather would say, To you, I give all of my love of yore and in all that may come to pass. 
> 
> ingersøl


	5. The Waking Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> summary courtesy of the biggest pain in my ass I could ever hope for, lemon: It's as cold as witch tits outside. Jaskier and Ciri finally get to meet.

**All Hell and It's Fire**

**Chapter Five: The Waking Dream**

* * *

by Ingersøl & Lemon

* * *

CW: graphic depictions of violence

* * *

* * *

Ciri had sung to Jaskier. She had sung songs she remembered from her childhood - ballads, shanties, lullabies. She had no idea whether or not he could hear her but she sang all the same. Leaning over the post of the bed she passed the hours running her fingers through his hair, pulling the sweaty strands from his face and tucking them back. Now she leaned against the head of the bed, her hand on his forehead, sleeping peacefully.

Geralt had sent her on small errands throughout the day, she suspected, to shield her from the more gruesome of tasks than out of actual necessity. But she listened all the same. By the time the sun had set and the cicadas began to sing she had done every possible task outside the room imaginable. She had fetched supplies, water, food, visited and fed Roach, and collected their belongings, moving them from their room down the hallway so they needn’t attempt to move Jaskier. 

Ljenka leaned into the frame of the window and Geralt almost jumped. _Almost_. 

“You know after all of this, there’s still one thing I can’t figure out.” 

“Careful what you ask, Geralt of Rivia.” She smirked, embracing the salt of the cold ocean wind. 

“Running this tavern, well that’s not so out of the ordinary, plenty of your kind choose to live menial lives among humans. But...hunting vampires by employing witchers?” 

“What’s so unusual about a person paying a monster hunter to hunt a monster?” She raised an eyebrow. 

“Nothing, I suppose. But I’m not sure I’ve ever heard of a vampire hiring and a witcher to hunt another vampire. It’s...well, seems a little contrived, doesn’t it?” 

Ljenka couldn’t help but laugh. “Fair enough. But if you must know, Kozlak is still too young."

"Hmm, he seems to think he's ready." 

"And that is how I know he is not. He is wise in a great many things and has spent the last seventy years studying magic, enchantments, and curses. He has done much good in this world in his short time. He is a clever boy but he's barely older than two and he is not ready to take on the likes of Yvel and her ilk. I am old, Geralt, and never have I been much of a warrior. I do not revel in the shedding of the blood of any creature."

Geralt chuckled. “Short life, huh? I suppose if you have all eternity, two hundred years can seem like nothing more than a moment. So it’s not over then, is it?” 

“Far from it, I'm afraid.”

"Who is she?" 

"Yvel is...one of us, a higher vampire that has committed her long and bloody lifetime to study magic... forbidden magic. The story changes depending on who you ask and I'm not sure what I believe anymore. But somewhere along the way she went utterly mad. I'm inclined to believe that at least that much is true. I still don't understand what awoke her. We should've had another year at the very least."

“Then why send me? I couldn’t have put her down for good and you should know that. Only one of your kind will have that distinct pleasure.”

“We knew she had awoken and that if she was not stopped, she would rain terror down until stopped. She nearly wiped all of Nilfgaard off the map a millennium ago.”

“Pity she didn’t.” Geralt smirked, as he pushed himself away from the window. He watched Jaskier for a moment, Ciri’s hand still gently set on the wet rag that lay across his forehead. His skin was a deep red and it glistened in the lowlight as his body tried desperately to sweat out the fever that raged in his blood. Geralt tried not to focus on his labored breathing, practically feeling the crackle of Jaskier’s lungs in his own chest but now that he had heard it it was all he could hear. Something twisted deep in his gut and he felt himself snarl. 

“I must ride for Kaer Morhen or we won’t make it before the frost sets in.” 

He had wanted no one, needed no one. And he definitely had not wanted anyone wanting or needing him. And yet here he was. 

“I would not leave yet if I were you. It's nothing short of miraculous that he's still alive, but the wind could shift at any time.” 

He understood what she was trying to say, trying to prepare him for but he didn’t want to hear it. He wasn’t stupid. He didn’t need to be prepared for the possibilities.

“We cannot stay, Ljenka. ”

“The journey may prove fatal for him. And unfortunately, Kozlak is right, even if he does survive there is no way to know the extent of what Yvel did to him. By the time it becomes apparent it could be too late.”

“Then I will handle it if the problem arises. But I cannot stay the winter in Murkwood, and I will not leave him behind...not again.”

“You stubborn bastard.” She laughed, her voice taut with frustration. “At least wait until daybreak, let the girl rest well in a warm place. The journey is long and I do not envy you. IKozlak may have something to help your friend here.”

* * *

Kozlak walked into the room holding a bottle about the size of a pint. It contained a dried birch branch, a small cluster of light purple mushrooms with long, curving stalks, what appeared to be the pickled leg of a lizard, and a dried, wilted sprig of small white flowers. The liquid was the color of bile and looked to be about the same consistency too. Large black bubbles, like oil on the surface of the water, floated in the concoction. As he entered the room he could sense Geralt prickle and resisted the urge to scoff. The witcher might as well have hissed at him, it would’ve felt more like a genuine greeting, anyway. 

He pulled up a chair beside the bed and slowly removed Ciri’s hand from Jaskier’s forehead, careful not to wake either of them. Tenderly the boy carried her to the bed across the room and tucked her under a sheet. Kozlak removed the cloth that she had held against Jaskier’s fevered skin and flinched. It was unbearably hot. That did not bode well. He set the bottle down on the table behind him and busied himself looking over the bard. 

Geralt was beside him now, looming over his shoulder, arms crossed and brow furrowed. 

“Before you give this to him, I want to know what it is and what it does.”

“It’s an incredibly heavy sedative and if all goes well it will put him in a comatose state for a better part of your journey. This could substantially speed up the healing process if his body takes to it.” 

“And if it doesn't?” 

“Best not to concern ourselves with that.”

“I’m rather fond of concerning myself with potentially fatal folk remedies.” Geralt growled as he grabbed Kozlak by the collar of his shirt and lifted him from the chair and nearly knocked him on his back. 

Kozlak was trying very hard to show Geralt just how unafraid of him the young boy was. He stood confidently, the taller man’s iron grip still wrapped around the collar of his shirt, he looked unimpressed and quite frankly rather annoyed. He huffed and stared Geralt dead in the eyes. 

If looks could kill, Geralt would have dropped dead. But then again, if looks could kill Jaskier would’ve killed him a thousand times over by now. 

“It’s called oil of wyrm’s dusk, _Geralt_.” His voice practically dripped with exasperation. “It’s not very common in this region because it requires material components only found in the highest reaches of the northern hills and they are rather expensive to get a hold of if you don’t know where to look and aren’t willing to trek for the materials yourself. The risk is generally very low. The concern here would be that if it is administered when he is too weak if his body is too close to the brink of shutting down, then he may not have the strength to wake from the slumber it induces.”

Geralt hesitated and then released his grip. “What are the side effects?” 

“That’s one of the appeals to this particular remedy, there are virtually none if the body is strong enough to fight off what ails it. It’s getting it down that’s the hard part. It smells positively vile and quite frankly, it burns like a bitch. It takes some time to take effect and the eyes have to be held open for it, if it’s blinked away it won’t work and we’ll have to try again.” He uncorked the bottle and whistled as he set it back on the table. “Thank the gods you don’t have to swallow it.” He turned around and began rolling up his sleeves. “I should warn you, it’s going to be rather unpleasant for everyone involved. Now, I need you to hold his head as steady as you can.”

* * *

Ljenka had procured them a wagon of sorts, nothing fancy but certainly more luxurious than walking. Ciri had not wanted to leave it's relative comfort when Geralt had patted her on the shoulder and woken her in the dead of night. But, if they were to warm themselves by a fire they certainly couldn’t do it from the back of the wagon. So she rubbed her eyes and groggily blinked up at the moon, gathering the blankets around her and hopped from the back of the wagon.

"What. Geralt what are we doing?" She asked, not quite remembering much of the conversation that had happened just moments before.

“We’re resting here for the night. The horses need a rest and I need to hunt.”

She had groggily complied and stumbled back to the wagon for her pack, before heading towards the clearing where the horses stood. Geralt pulled his glove from his hand and lay his palm across Jaskier’s forehead. It was as cold as ice but he was breathing, even if it was faint.

He swallowed the sour in his stomach. No time for that now.

* * *

Ciri held her hands out to the fire. She had told Geralt that it wasn’t going to be enough food to last them until the next town. But he had been anxious to leave their first stop in a small fishing village and had refused to wait around for the morning light and for farmers and peddlers to bring out their wares. She had been right and she was rather unhappy about it. She pursed her lips and huffed, hunger gnawing at her. It wasn’t unbearable yet, it had most definitely been worse in the past...but it was rather irritating. Snow drifted down, dancing through the black of night and speckling the pile of furs and quilts she found herself beneath. 

She looked over beside her, brushing her hand across Jaskier’s hair, dusting the clusters of snow off. Something about the stillness felt rather like sitting with a corpse and that thought made her gut flip over. His face was serene and his skin was a rather disconcerting shade of grey, almost blue, making him look rather like an effigy rather than a person. His lips and underneath his eyes were a shade of purple that reminded her of a deep bruise. Snow had begun to clump in his hair and eyelashes, speckling his skin once more. Unmelted it sat there slowly burying him. She checked to make sure he was still breathing. Her heart nearly leaped from her chest when, for a moment she could not find his pulse. Eventually she did and nearly cried out in relief. His heart was still beating, albeit incredibly slowly, but Geralt had warned her that that was a possibility, reassuring her that it was an induced state and not a result of his injuries. The bard had been in this state since they had departed Murkwood. It had been days now but Geralt didn’t seem concerned, reassuring her that Kozlak said it could be weeks before he woke again. But every time he reaffirmed this, his voice was gentle and slow, almost emotional. If it was anyone else she probably would’ve found that rather comforting but it was Geralt and it served only to cause the concern to bloom in her chest and sit heavy on her heart.

She stoked the fire, and then buried herself once again in the covers, hoping to pass the time sleeping.

* * *

Jaskier’s world wrapped around him like tendrils of smoke from a roaring fire, little by little it began to form a coherent picture. The moon was bright and blue, illuminating the clumps of fresh snowfall as they danced in the black air. They waltzed around the embers that floated up from the fire. He lifted his head. He was near a roaring campfire but still, the cold was paralyzing. It felt as though he had fallen through the ice into a frozen river and then been pulled out only to be left to freeze slowly in the snow. He imagined this was what it felt like to be a corpse - flesh firm and taut, ice frozen inside your veins, consumed by a hollow hunger. 

He waited, anticipating the pain as he awoke. It had become an oddly comforting thing. Agony had been his companion for so long now. She, in all her cruelty and her magnificence, had never abandoned him, even in his darkest moments. What they shared needn’t be explained or justified, it simply was and she never expected a stiff lip or explanation from him. What they had was intimate and sacred and it demanded reverence. He was alive and she would whisper that affirmation to him when he felt on the brink of the abyss, her voice ringing through his broken bones and torn flesh and pulling him back. 

But his pain did not come, where her familiar pricking and humming had once resonated throughout his body there was only a cloudy numbness that floated around him like fog. 

_Oh. Oh okay. It was starting to make sense now. It was merely a dream._

Something moved beside him and, with some effort, he managed to turn his head. There, nestled in the pile of fabric and fur, lay a sleeping girl. He could feel the warmth of her breath against his cheek.

Something about her seemed vaguely familiar but he had seen so many people in so many places he had no way to know where he could’ve seen her before. Besides, it was just as likely that she was just a fragment of a dream he had had in the past. The light of the moon caught on her hair like threads of spider’s silk. 

He dare not wake her, a child shivering in the snow. Instead, he turned his face back to the sky, the graceful light of the moon bathing everything in the clearing in a humming blue. He was reminded of an old folk song. He swallowed hard, his dry throat sticking to itself, his tongue felt like wool in his mouth. But he didn’t care. He began to sing the song quietly to himself, his raw voice cutting out, rendering the tune and words nearly indecipherable. 

O, the snow it melts the soonest when the winds begin to sing;

And the corn it ripens fastest when the frosts are setting in;

And when a woman tells me that my face she'll soon forget,

_Before we part, I wad a crown, she's fain to follow't yet._

The snow it melts the soonest when the wind begins to sing;

And the swallow skims without a thought as long as it is spring;

But when spring goes, and winter blows, my lass, an ye'll be fain,

For all your pride, to follow me, were't cross the stormy main.

O, the snow it melts the soonest when the wind begins to sing;

The bee that flew when summer shined, in winter cannot sting;

I've seen a woman's anger melt between the night and morn,

And it's surely not a harder thing to tame a woman's scorn.

He lingered on the last phrase. The last time he had sung of his own volition, and not at the behest of his captor, had been upon the edge of the balcony, gazing across the ocean storm, just moments before he cast himself into the sea.

“That was lovely.” 

Her voice surprised him and he panicked. But his escape was rather pathetic, it sort of reminded him of dropping a sack of potatoes. It caused her to bolt upright, holding out her hands in a gesture of surrender.

“Slow down, you’re going to hurt yourself if you’re not careful. You’re safe here...you’re safe.” She held up her hands, wide eyes bright with firelight. 

He took a deep breath and tried to sit up but only succeeded in lifting himself enough to drop flat on his back. After a second rather pathetic attempt to rise, he let his head drop on the hard, cold ground squinting as he stared up into the falling snow. “You know what, yeah. This is fine, I’ll just...stay here.” 

She giggled and smiled at him warmly as she followed suit and lay flat on her back, looking up at the moon. “My name is Ciri. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” 

“Julian or Jaskier.” He dipped his head and lifted his hand, a pathetic attempt at a bow, but she didn’t seem to mind. “And it is an honor and a pleasure to meet you, my young lady.” He looked around again, having no trouble seeing through the inky darkness at the gnarled forest of dead birch that surrounded them. “I’m afraid I’m not quite sure how we got here Lady Ciri...or...where exactly 'here' is, or where we’re headed _now_ from that aforementioned 'here'.” He forced a smirk as he shuddered into the blankets, trying to mask how deep the cold and hunger had sunk into his bones. 

“We’re taking the western pass, hoping to beat the worst of the snow. We’ve only been on the road for several days though and Geralt said you probably wouldn’t wake for at least another week. I'm sure he'll want to know you've awoken."

_The western pass? Western pass to where? Wait._

_Geralt._

It took a moment for his mind to catch up.

_Geralt... Geralt… Oh my god,_ **_Geralt_ ** _._

“Geralt.” He said frantically, nearly yelping as he did so. “Geralt. You wouldn't happen to be referring to the very same Geralt of _Rivia_ ? The _White Wolf_ ? The _Butcher_ of Blaviken? _That_ Geralt?”

He supposed that that made sense, this was a dream after all and he had dreamt of Geralt more often than he would've liked to admit. Sometimes he was with him, and things were the way that they never were, the way they never would be. But most of the time, Jaskier spent frantic hours desperately trying to reach Geralt, like trapping smoke in his hands. 

Although it had been nearly a year since they parted, it felt as though Geralt had never left his side and it was excruciating. Jaskier had tried everything to rid himself of the witcher. It was certainly beginning to seem that as long as he lived he would never be free of the witcher. His desperation to solve such a problem, and an unhealthy amount of spirits, is what led him to Yvel in the first place. 

No, Geralt was always there, his shadow always in the corner of Jaskier's sight, his golden eyes a flash in the dark. He lived there on the edge of his conscious mind.

The girl was new though. 

He could deal with being cold or hungry in a dream, in his experience, it just meant he was probably cold and hungry in the waking world as well. But much more crushing was the realization that, unfortunately, he was still alive somewhere...probably naked on the floor of that castle, his body clinging desperately to the last threads of life. 

Ciri laughed and it reminded him of a music box. She found him rather entertaining and very easy to talk to, even when he was in a bad way like this. “Yes, I mean, at least I believe so. He is the only Geralt I know. He has gone off to hunt, the horses needed a rest and we are too far between cities to find shelter to rest. Besides, we need to eat and warm ourselves.” She muttered as she reached for her bag and began rummaging through it. “Speaking of which, how are you feeling?”

_Terrible. Sort of like I’m starving to death and that I’ve already frozen to death quite some time ago, thanks for asking._

“Good, yeah. I think much better.” He smiled at her, but even he was unconvinced - didn’t matter though. What did it matter if he lied in his dream? She raised her eyebrows at him and smirked. 

“Are you hungry? Thirsty? We have water, but not much in the way of food, I’m afraid. Only half a loaf of rye but Geralt has been gone for some time. I’m sure he'll return soon." She pulled one of the furs tighter about her as she listened to the creatures of the wood as she held out the rye.

“Oh. I’m sorry.” She fumbled as she set the bread down on the furs and helped him to sit upright, well...sort of. 

Once he was situated she passed him the bread and a waterskin and set about snuggling back underneath the pile of fabrics. “Julek, you really should try to eat something.”

Jaskier smiled at the name and, though he felt sick at the very thought, he couldn’t stand the look of concern that scrunched her face. He took a bite from the bread and smiled at her, watching as she visibly relaxed.

“Geralt will want to check your wounds. He was muttering something to Roach about it earlier.” She snickered. “Even with me around I’m convinced he’d rather talk to his horse.”

“Gods, I know that feeling.” Jaskier snorted as he gingerly sipped on the water she had handed him hoping to use the water to wash down the nibble of stale bread. As soon as it hit his tongue his stomach felt like it would turn. “But, then again, Geralt wasn’t particularly fond of me. To say that he tolerated me would be a rather egregious falsehood.” He laughed but it was tense and caught in his dry throat.

Ciri opened her mouth to respond. If Jaskier only knew what Geralt had said about him just days before he- 

A strangled cry twisted in his chest as Jaskier dropped the bread and the waterskin, dumping the icy water all over his front. His fingers dug into his shirt he clawed at his gut. He met her gaze, panic in his eyes as he sputtered and choked on the cold, clotted blood that filled his mouth and dribbled down his chin.

* * *

The night was silent and in some ways that was good for hunting. Geralt’s ears could pick up on the slightest twitch of flesh from impossibly far. He had been so stupid and now he was trudging quietly through the fresh snowfall in the middle of the night, trying desperately to find anything he could feed the humans in his care. They were near to the trailhead of the western pass and there was a small settlement at the base of the mountain. They could stop, for at least a night, at an inn and get some real fucking food. Finally. 

He spotted something just beyond a line of dead trees. Taking a quiet and cautious step forward he crouched. Just as he lifted his bow, a shrill scream ripped through the air and echoed off the mountains. A murder of crows took flight from a tree beside him, crying into the night as they went. 

_Ciri._

_Fuck_. 

* * *

* * *

  
  


I hope you enjoy it! I had meant to publish the last chapter and this one as one chapter instead of two but it ended up being far too long for a single chapter. 

I’m terrible at making notes. So. Yeah. 

  
  


  
  
  



	6. Where The Dog Is Buried

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: graphic depictions of violence, disturbing imagery, brief mention of drug abuse and suicidal ideation, implied mention of sexual assault.
> 
> UPDATE: I posted an older version accidentally. The edits have been made. Deepest apologies. 
> 
> lemon’s summary: Jaskier can’t catch a break and Geralt can’t catch dinner.

  
  


**All Hell and It's Fire**

**Chapter Six: Where The Dog Is Buried**

* * *

by Ingersøl & Lemon

* * *

**FOUR DAYS EARLIER…**

Ljenka watched the cart disappear over the farthest hill and down into the thicket. Something sank in her chest. She had packed Jaskier’s things, what little he had had and left behind that night the storm began, inside she had added a few things of her own. 

She had found him simply by chance nearly a month ago. He had wandered through Murkwood and to her door. She would later tell him that she was awaiting a parcel when he quite literally stumbled into her arms. She barely recognized him. And in the state he was in he didn’t recognize her either, though she hadn’t changed a bit. His hair was disheveled, face unshaven, and he was stumbling around with one shoe on singing nonsense to himself. 

And she had brought him inside and tried her best to help him back on his feet. 

He told her again and again that he was fine and rather capable of handling his own affairs, though he appreciated the warm bed...the meals...that pair of boots she gave to him. During his short stay they had found themselves tangled in her sheets more than once...just like years before when he had passed through the port.

It was lustful and wild and affectionate. Neither of them wanting or needing a commitment from the other but rather, seeking comfort in each other. If Jaskier had been honest with himself...and sober, he probably would’ve called it cathartic.

On the rare occasion that she demanded explanations from him though, he quite vehemently opposed. Snapping up like a fan and curtly stating that he did not want to discuss it any further because, really, there was nothing to discuss in the first place. 

She couldn’t help but think back to the last conversation they had had.

“You are drunk. You should try to get some rest before your boat departs at dawn.” Ljenka had said, looking him over. Now that she stood face to face with him she could see just how pale he was, his beautiful rosy cheeks thinned and his sea-glass eyes tired. "When was the last time you ate?" 

He laughed and brushed off the question with a sly wink and a devilish smirk. 

“Ah. _Vot gdeh sobaka zaryta."_ she smirked, knowingly.

He narrowed his eyes at her. "Yeah...yeah...you caught me. I don't want to hear it from you." He poked her in the shoulder, scrunching his face into a playful scowl. "Besides, I...I have found it smuch eas'r to get drunk on an empty stomach."

"Come, _solnyshko_. At least eat something before you depart. It doesn't have to be much. At this rate you'll blow away in the wind.” 

He leaned in, as careful as he could to keep from stumbling. He kissed her on her forehead. “I will. I will, darling. I just need s’mair. Th’sall.” He slurred, tapping her nose with his finger. Her eyebrows furrowed and she crossed her arms. She was not convinced.

"It’s raining. That's a relief.” 

He looked at her and snorted as he slung his lute over his back, not bothering with the case or his cloak.

“Don’t laugh, that’s a good omen. It means you will return to this place.” 

He chuckled but it was strained, he swallowed the lump in his throat clumsily. “I should hope so. The boat doesn’t leave until tomorrow and I would hate to sleep out on the cliffs tonight. I’m not dressed properly for it.” 

Ljenka smiled, tucking her hair behind her ear as she watched the drunken bard step across the threshold and out into the night. 

Ljenka was no fool. She had walked this world for hundreds of years and she was well aware that her child-like fascination, her near reverence for the peculiarities of the bleeding-heart poet would bear no fruit. It may dull the thorns of his brambled heart for a short time but that would be all. Kozlak had been rather exasperated with the entire situation, likening it to taking in a stray pup that wouldn't stop yelping day and night. 

She knew that it would do nothing for her in the end and in the scope of her life, it was little more than the blink of an eye. But gods, she’d be damned if she didn’t enjoy his company...in a multitude of ways. It hurt her to see him in agony and she couldn’t quite explain it. She had seen depravity, suffering, and death for hundreds of years. Witnessing famines and plagues and wars as they ravaged the land.

But something about him and the purity of his heartbreak had moved her. The wonderment with which he viewed the world was wild and foreign to her. Not to mention he was absolutely shameless and devilishly handsome. 

He was not in love with her, nor was she with him. But she did love him dearly.

"Until next time, muse." She whispered into the wind.

“You have made a grave mistake, ljulenki*.” The little girl taunted as she danced through the puddles, her bare feet splashing. She was dressed in a bright white dress with intricate red embroidery gracing the hems and across the chest. Her long blond hair was braided into a long fishtail and slung over her shoulder, her head adorned with a crown of flowers. Ljenka looked down in the puddle but saw only the sky and villagers as they bustled about, neither she nor the girl appeared in the reflection.

“Hold your tongue, Veszna.” Ljenka muttered. “And please, would you try not to throw yourself wantonly into reflections just to flaunt your absence. Someday someone will notice.” She looked the girl over from the corner of her eyes, refusing to turn her head from where it faced the road. “What are you doing here anyway?” 

“How rude. Quite the hostess you are...sharing your bed with the flea-bitten masses and turning away a kinsman. For shame, ljulenki. Besides, why shouldn’t I speak my piece, hmm? You have quite the nerve. Disrupting the natural order of things.” 

“What _natural order_? Nothing about our existence is natural. It is a glorified curse to play gods amongst immortals. We are not omnipotent or infinite. We are just as flawed as they are.” She gestured with her head to a passing merchant packing a pipe and lighting it as he trudged down the muddy path. “Who I welcome into my bed is no business of yours or anyone else's.” She sounded disinterested but Veszna could hear the strain in her voice, she was getting under Ljenka's skin and she was thoroughly enjoying every moment of it.

“Why the sudden change of heart, sister? He’s just another lamb and all lambs must be brought to the slaughter, if not today then tomorrow.” 

“He is mortal and whether he lives or dies is no concern of yours or mine.” Ljenka's voice was stunningly emotionless.

“Hmm, I suppose.” The child mused as she spun and danced. “Unless...he isn’t?”

Ljenka froze, the icy panic clear on her face as her porcelain composure shattered. 

“ _Vot gdeh sobaka zaryta._ Did you think that _I,_ ” she sprawled her little fingers across her chest dramatically, “of all people, would not find out what Yvel was attempting to do? You underestimate me, lovely. If she was successful and he miraculously manages to survive, which of course is not likely. We all know how that beast is, she revels in agony…” The girl winced dramatically and smiled a wicked, demonic grin. “Tell me ljulenki...do you suppose because his flesh has warmed your bed and his seed slicked your tongue that Nemisza will pass over him?”

Ljenka face twisted in rage and she grabbed the child by the hair. Before the girl could scream theatrically she felt her back slam into the side of the stable. In the blink of an eye, they were behind the building, on the far side of the stables, and out of sight of the road. 

“Perhaps, you did not hear me the first time, Veszna. I said hold your tongue or I’ll rip it from your pretty, little head and feed it to the dogs.” She hissed and bore her fangs, her face contorting into a monstrous visage.

The child was unphased, her face looking impetuous and disgusted. 

“Get your filthy hands off me.” She pushed Ljenka hard and the woman released her iron grip on the girl's hair. Veszna straightened herself and stuck her tongue out. “I’m just warning you. After that lovely little stunt that Yvel pulled, he is fated to die an excruciating death, and if somehow, against all odds, he manages to survive? Then they will come for him. He will be marked and he will be hunted. There is no place in heav’n nor hell where he can hide.” 

* * *

Jaskier’s stomach had turned so violently that his eyes watered and his vision went white. He fell forward, barely catching himself. It didn’t last long though and after only a second or two his arms gave out. The pain rippled like a shockwave through his frozen muscles. Jaskier slowly started to regain movement in his arms and legs. He lifted himself back up onto his hands and knees and turned to look at Ciri but before his eyes met her face, he twisted the other way and retched into the snow beside him. He heard her gasp as she scrambled across the blankets to him, placing a hand on his back. She recoiled, his skin burned like a hot iron against her palm.

“Julek...”

“It’s okay. It’s okay. Ciri, I’m alright. I promise.” Jaskier, with some difficulty, pulled the shirt from his chest and wiped the black mess from his skin. It smelled putrid and the very sight of it almost turned his stomach again. With great effort, he wadded it up and tossed it away, the further the stench, the better. “Truly. Really, I’m...I’m just feeling a little ill, that’s all.” He turned to Ciri, to see the look of utter terror on a face so young twisted in his chest. He smiled weakly at her as he felt the sweat begin to drip down the curve of his spine. Her wide eyes darted across his face, deciding whether or not she was going to believe him. 

She moved the blanket drenched in sick and icy water off of the pile and helped him lean back against a rock. Fumbling through her pack she pulled out another waterskin. 

"Here. I don't imagine the lingering taste is particularly pleasant." 

He laughed and accepted the water thanking her with a dramatic flourish of his hand. He wiped the sweat from his forehead, pushing the bangs that now clung to his burning skin from his vision. He wiggled the rest of the way out from under the blankets and sat in the snow trying to catch his breath.

Just moments before his blood had been frigid, muscles stiff with cold and skin nearly purple from the frost. In a matter of moments, he felt as though he was being burned alive from the inside out. Consumed by a raging fever, the pain was just as intense but entirely different and he was struggling to adapt. 

“So...um... tell me Ciri, how did Geralt come to find me in the first place?"

She relayed what she knew of the tale. That they had arrived in a relentless storm that had beat upon them for days and that they had sought shelter in the tavern. Ljenka had provided the room and board free of charge on the condition that Geralt would simply speak with her. Jaskier smiled sadly at this. The next thing Ciri knew, Geralt said that he would be back by dawn, rummaged through his things, taking only some of them before departing. Kozlak returned first, with Jaskier in his arms and Geralt followed shortly thereafter. She paused to gauge his responses but she could sense he was slipping.

His fever was beginning to haze his mind and his newfound control over his faculties once again began to wane. 

“I am glad, lady Ciri that I had the chance to meet you, even if only in a dream. You are more pleasant conversation than I have had in a very, very long time.” Her expression scrunched into a playful look of disbelief. She honestly couldn’t tell whether he was joking or not. He turned his head sideways, resting his cheek upon his knee and gazing at the clearing, now glistening with settled snow in the moonlight. “If I had to guess... I am... bleeding to death on the floor of what, uh...was presumably once a rather...a rather nice estate but is now the home to one absolutely _mad_ and at least somewhat vampiric demon woman...maybe the only person on the entire Continent who truly enjoys my singing. I-I...w-would’ve thought myself to be dead already...Can the dead dream? Maybe we are already corpses and this is hell...rather nice for hell, though…” He muttered to himself, trailing off. “...I don’t know, maybe it’s something...something that exists in the space between.”

Ciri thought pensively for a moment. “I wish I knew the answers. But...one thing I do know is that we are very much alive.”

He almost laughed. He had resigned himself to the fact that he would never see Geralt again and to think that Geralt had somehow swooped in and rescued him from his slow and agonizing death...He couldn't decide which reality would be more devastating: that Geralt had left him on that mountain and never looked back or that he had somehow, at the very last second, burst through the door and rescued him. 

He laughed bitterly to himself, unable to decide whether the idea was more horrifying or funny. Quite frankly it was insulting. 

Jaskier had roamed endlessly and aimlessly in an attempt to drown his sorrows in a multitude of sins. 

_Where was Geralt then?_

_Where was Geralt when he wandered back down that mountain alone and lost?_

_Where was he when Jaskier drank away the last of his coin on pisswater ale and slept for several nights leaning against a barrel behind the stables?_

_Where was he when he had assured himself and everyone around him that he was doing much better but couldn't bear the thought of any song having to do with Geralt or reminding him of Geralt in any way, which happened to be all of them? So rather than face it he decided to try his hand at whoring for a while._

_Where was Geralt when that had all ended rather poorly and suddenly for Jaskier? He swallowed hard, closing the door on the thought. He was not ready to face it, and he may never be._

_Where was the witcher when he had finally pulled himself together enough to perform and made decent coin too? But before he could spend it on a multitude of other self-destructive pleasures was beaten nearly to death with a tankard for winking in the direction of a married woman with a rather possessive husband._

_Or when he had been solicited by a drunk baron, and his wife, and thought it a rather excellent idea to bed them both and try fisstech while he was at it spending several days tied to a bed, naked and in a drug-induced stupor. Where was Geralt then, hmm ?_

_Where was Geralt when he had stumbled into Murkwood half-dead and high out of his mind with no idea where he was or how he came to be there?_

Gods, he had been... busy… For the briefest of times, he actually allowed himself to believe that he was fine and that he had never intended to end his life in the first place. Simply living passionately with reckless abandon. But it was shamefully, painfully clear to him now, as it had been to everyone around him, that he had resolved to kill himself long before he stumbled along that rocky shoreline. 

  
  


The winds were picking up and the snow was beginning to blow sideways through the air. A hollow howl echoed through the wind and screamed through the dead trees. In a single moment, the fire was extinguished and the world around them went dark. Ciri squinted and blinked rapidly, willing her eyes to adjust to the darkness faster. 

Jaskier had hardly noticed the absence of the campfire, his mind consumed by the fire in his blood. It was unbearable, the heat threatening to crack his bones like splintering twigs in a fire, to reduce him to ash. He gasped for air but little relief came. Dark blood began to drip from his nose and his eyes. He could taste it as it slid down the back of his throat, soured and metallic.

He was on his back now, his head tilted as far forward as it could go. 

He could see her face over his, her golden hair tumbling around her rosy cheeks and hanging between them. With hazy eyes, he tried to follow her movements, to decipher her words as she held the snow-soaked cloth to his face. She was shouting, shaking his shoulders. But he couldn’t seem to focus long enough to understand it. It was though his head had been filled with wool and then shoved under the thrumming tides. 

Her mouth...he tried to make out the words when she turned to look across the clearing. 

All was still before a nightmarish scream pierced the air. 

Then there was nothing at all.

* * *

By the time Geralt reached the edge of the clearing the screaming had ceased and he could hear nothing but the flight of crows overhead. 

He shouldn’t have left them behind. What had he been thinking? Ciri was just a child and the bard wasn’t much of a fighter even at the best of times, now he was completely incapacitated. He had left them defenseless and vulnerable in the dark woods. 

He could smell the campsite before he could see it from across the clearing. He smelled smoke, the must of old blankets and fur, none of those were cause for concern. But as he moved closer, it overwhelmed him, nearly making his eyes water. Fear, anguish, and the cloying stench of decay.

The fire had been recently extinguished, smoke still billowing from the blackened wood. Ciri lay as if asleep, collapsed atop the blankets and furs. He dropped down beside her and turned her on her back, upon feeling his touch across her face, she nuzzled into Geralt’s hand. She was breathing, her heartbeat slow and steady. She seemed completely unharmed.

_It was a dream. She was just having a bad dream._

Geralt visibly relaxed as he reached for where he had laid Jaskier but his hand grasped at the ice and slush that began to form around the wet fabric, the empty waterskin and the last chunk of bread sat where the bard had once been.

Besides the bedding, there was a puddle of black coagulated sick. The same mess dribbled across the snow to the fire and through the smoke to the other side. He ran his fingers across the goop and rubbed the pads of his fingertips together. He brought it to his face to sniff it. It was familiar but he still couldn’t place it. Grunting in frustration, he stuck his tongue to the black blood and spat it into the snow. The acrid stench burned in the back of Geralt’s throat. Whatever it was from, the creature was sick. He stood cautiously, drawing his sword and stepping through the hot embers and through the billowing smoke of the dying fire. 

When he opened his eyes he could see the snow falling towards him in heavy, silent clumps. He sat up and looked around. Somehow he had ended up on the opposite side of the clearing. Squinting through the snowfall he could see the crumpled form of a man lying in the snow between him and the smoldering fire and beyond that, Ciri still sleeping peacefully. 

He reached for his sword but it was not beside him. He would have to worry about that later. He stood and stalked forward cautiously, his yellow eyes nearly glowing in the darkness. 

In the untouched snow there lay a ring of small stones. Jaskier lay face down in the center of it curled into himself, knees to his chest. The socks and boots had been ripped from his feet and his shirt from his back. The low glowing of the moon that reflected off the snow served only to emphasize the wounds that littered his skin. 

His hair was wet and matted with bright red blood as if it had been poured over his head. Geralt sniffed the air...it wasn’t human blood. It dribbled down his head and ran down in four perfect lines cutting through the snow. From where Geralt stood they looked like points of a crown. The lines extended from where his head lay like rays of the sun, each line about thirty centimeters in length. Geralt could see his back rise and fall painfully slowly. 

He was still alive.

The witcher carefully turned him over onto his back. His eyes were wide open, and black as the night. Occasionally his lashes would flutter as though he were trying to blink something from his vision and the ink of his eyes would drip like tears down his face. Black streaks, now dried, had cut hard lines across his pale face up his brow and to his forehead where they had pooled at the point where his head had rested in the icy slush. 

His arms were crossed tightly in front of him, wrists laid gently across each other and fingers delicately woven together like a porcelain doll directly over his sternum. He was holding something in the cage of his hands. As gently as he could muster, Geralt pried Jaskier’s frozen arms from his chest. Inside his cupped hands was the corpse of a turtledove, one wing had been mercilessly ripped from its body. 

A simple design had been painted in the dove’s blood across his chest. A large diamond sat in the very center of his chest in the valley of a “Y” that extended down to the hem of his trousers. A small branch extended diagonally from either slant of the “Y” that cut through his chest. In thick, heavy strokes it followed along the lines of the wounds inflicted by Yvel. Geralt had not seen it before, not pieced the gashes and cuts together but now he could not see them independently anymore. 

Geralt held Jaskier’s wrist as gently as he could. The skin was an ashen grey and his fingernails a purple so deep it appeared black. He was as stiff as a corpse and nearly as cold but still, Geralt could see him breathing, feel his heartbeat in his wrist.

The frozen hand shot forward, breaking Geralt's hold and catching him utterly off guard. It clenched tightly around the witcher's throat, fingers like cold marble digging into his flesh. 

Jaskier’s limp body began to twitch and writhe, his head slowly rolled forward from where it had rested, staring blankly at the sky. As if propelled by some unseen force that tugged at him through his chest, he sat upright, his body slumping as he did head lolling forward. He stood and brought Geralt upright with him, his cold hand clenched tightly around the witcher’s throat.

His eyes rolled back from where they had rested in the back of his head sending the black dripping down his cheeks and across his dry, cracked lips. He exhaled and rolled his stiff jaw, a snarl curling his upper lip. He dug deeper into the skin, feeling it break beneath his nails and reveling in the rush of hot blood that welled up under his fingers. Geralt cried out but it was little more than a rasp. 

“ _Vot gdeh sobaka zaryta_.” He let the words slip almost sensually past his lips. His voice was low, striking the bottom of Geralt’s chest and humming through him. Those black eyes danced devilishly and his lips split into a wicked grin, his teeth flashing in the dark.

Geralt clawed at the hand that crushed his throat but he could not break the hold. He thought he heard Jaskier repeat the foreign words.

And then the darkness claimed him.

  
  
  
  
AN: Names are changing for reasons. Morana is now Ljenka and "ljulenki" the condescending pet-name that Veszna gives to her, it almost like "precious" or "sweetie pie" it's kind of like calling someone a daydream.  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Вот где собака зарыта or vot gdeh sobaka zaryta is an expression that translates to “So this is where the dog is buried.” It’s sort of an “Aha! And the truth comes out!” I have no idea whether it is still used nowadays, it’s something I heard as a child many times, usually right as I was caught red-handed. 
> 
> and solnyshko is a term of endearment. It is a combination of the word for "sun" and a diminutive particle. basically, my little sun or some people translate it as "sunshine"
> 
> I promise I’m going somewhere with this and that there will be happy moments too. There will be good feels, there will be shameless sex, there will be happiness. But first...there will be suffering. I hope you enjoy and your comments give me lifeblood and purpose so thank you from the bottom of my heart. I'd love to hear thoughts and feelings.
> 
> Happy birthday lemon. Enjoy, dearest.


End file.
